East or West or North or Due South
by Novia Adastra
Summary: It was supposed to be a routine delivery for Michael, but it wound up nearly being the death of him. Now he's hitting the road, looking for a new gig, a new lease on life. He finds it in Nipton, the brutal spectacle left by the Legion giving hi the purpose he has lacked for so long. Legio delenda est!
1. Chapter 1

I wake up in a strange house in nothing but my underwear. So far a not entirely extraordinary morning, except for the mother of all hangovers. I feel my head-not my hair though. The hair is gone-like all gone. Did I shave it? Done stranger things on dares. I run my hand over the smooth skin, and it feels nice, until I touch the bandage over my ear. Damn, that hurts! Probably hit it on a doorway or something. Always used to happen when I was coming down from Jet. I'd get the lash, this sound like a whip crack in my head, my vision shattering. Then I'd hit a door, the floor, a wall, a burned out truck, whatever was there.

My head's clearing quick, all things considered. Coffee brewing-a good start. Some old arcade game in the corner keeps flashing. Who the hell keeps a love tester running in an energy crisis? I find out when an old man comes down the hall-oh dear, not my taste at all usually, but I suppose he has a house and is carrying two mugs of coffee this way.

"Good, you're up," he says, setting a Poseidon Energy mug on the surgical table beside the cot. It strikes me, seeing the instruments on the table, that this situation could get real weird real fast. I don't have my gun near me, but I'm pretty sure I could get that scalpel if I have to.

"Sorry," he says, "should probably introduce myself. Name's Doc Mitchell."

Could explain the surgical instruments, I suppose, but you can call yourself anything these days. Pull a uniform out of a rusty footlocker, and suddenly you're a soldier.

"Michael," I say. I look at the cup of coffee but don't reach for it. I'm starting to doubt if I can really take this guy if it came to it, especially if there's any sedative in that mug. "What-what happened last night?"

Doc Mitchell leans back, sips his coffee. "Well, last night...last night you slept."

Funny. "Before that, what happened?"

"Like I said, you slept. That's what you've been doing the past three nights-and days, for that matter."

"Wait, I've been out three days? Shit, I know I'm fired now." I've been working here and there as a courier for Mojave Express. It's generally a pretty crappy gig unless you can fall in with a convivial caravan on its way to Vegas. Otherwise you have to make your own eating and sleeping arrangements. This one time I slept in an old refrigerator just off the road. Had to schlep a skeleton out of it, but shelter's shelter.

"Well, you got shot. Three days is a pretty good turnaround, but then you did have me looking out for you."

"Is that why the-" I pointed at the bandage. He nodded. "Wow, all right. Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"You're welcome, and don't worry about it. I'll bill Mojave Express." At my stunned look, he chuckles. "Just kidding, but it's covered all the same."

"Thanks," I say again. "So, where are we? This Primm?"

"Oh no, no. Goodsprings."

"People get shot in Goodsprings?" I pick up the coffee. "Thought it was a quiet town."

"Well, you did, and it was quiet till the Powder Gangers took over the NCR prison-and then those Khans and the guy in the suit showed up. Guess they were looking for you, because they were out of town at the gunshot. Victor found you and brought you here."

"Victor? Is he here?"

"He should still be around. He's been rolling up and down Main Street since you've been here."

My hands are little shaky still, and a drop of hot coffee runs down the side of the mug onto my leg. I'm suddenly aware that he hasn't offered me any clothes for this little chat.

"Hey, do you have my stuff? Clothes, gear?"

"Isn't much there, sorry to say. Victor brought you here in your bloody clothes. Head wounds bleed like crazy, you know, even if they're not fatal. I've got them on the line outside. Also got some old jumpsuits in the closet if you want something without any stains on it."

Shit, there goes my food, meds, weapons, and-worst of all-the package I was supposed to deliver. Primm is a long walk from here-hell of a long way to go just to get chewed out for screwing up a delivery. Being a courier is a dangerous job: no one cares that you got robbed or stabbed or even shot. You screw up, and that's on you.

"What do I," I say quietly, overwhelmed by the magnitude of my failure, "you know, what do I do?"

"You can thank Victor, for a start. Then, I guess you could talk to Sunny at the Prospector. Sunny Smiles. Usually has all sorts of paying work. Course, you can stay here until you figure out where you're going. You're my only patient, and there's plenty of room."

I finish the coffee and stand up from the cot. My legs buckle, but I get them under me and walk to the closet with the jumpsuits. I figured they were mechanics' outfits, but they're actual vault jumpsuits. Not knockoffs: genuine Vault-Tec issue. I take one, making a note to take the other two before I go. Can always find a buyer for a mint condition vault suit. The fabric is strong, stain- and tear-resistant.

I dress quickly in the hall. "Hey," I say, zipping up the suit, "what does Victor look like?"

"Oh, you can't miss him," Doc Mitchell calls back. "He's the only securitron in town."


	2. Chapter 2

I follow the unmistakable impression of a tire tread up a hill that overlooks the town square, such as it is. Victor stands beside an open grave, watching me with that scowling cowboy face as I crest the hill. I trip over a rock and come to a stop much closer to the robot than I would like.

"Howdy, partner!" Victor says. "You're lookin' a dang sight better'n before!" He extends a giant three-fingered hand.

The situation is unnerving: I'm standing just about two feet from an armed securitron and an empty grave. Doesn't sound promising.

"Victor, is it?" I say, hoping that feigning a bit of ignorance will excuse me from putting my hand in his clutches.

"Yessir!" It seems to work, as he lowers his hand.

"I wanted to ask you about the other night. When you brought me to Doc Mitchell's."

"Well, shoot, I was just takin' in the air, when I heard a shot. Some fellas came back down, but I didn't want any trouble so I hung back 'til I was sure they were out of town. Then I went up and noticed there was a blood trail leading to a plot I'd never seen before. Sure enough, I dug you up, did a quick vitality test, and brought you Doc Mitchell."

"Vitality test?"

"Yup, got sensors in these here hands that can measure heart rate, breathing. Mighty useful out here in the Mojave!"

"Yeah, well, thanks, Victor. Thanks for pulling me out of there." The sun is high overhead, and the glare from Victor's polished surfaces is blinding. I extend my hand this time, and he takes it in a very tight grip. He soon relaxes it, however, perhaps sensing my suddenly elevated blood pressure.

"By the way," I say when we finish shaking, "you happen to get a good look at the people who shot me?"

"One of them was a definite city slicker-had the Strip written all over him. Wearin' a jacket that looked like a damn tablecloth. They were headed east, said somethin' about takin' the long road to Vegas 'cause of the deathclaws."

I thank him again and then tear out of that high and lonesome place for the comparatively lively Prospector Saloon. Inside it's cool and dark, although a few rays of sunlight filter through the papered windows. There's a blond woman at the pool table lining up a shot. The tip of the cue darts between her fingers several times, each time stopping at the exact same point. Then she cocks her arm back and hammers the white cue ball right into the center of the rack. It's as good a metaphor for her shooting as I need, and I know before she even says it that this is Sunny Smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

From my reputation as Goodsprings's most notable almost-murder victim, Sunny buys me a drink, and we sit at a booth near the pool table. She lays four Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle caps on the edge of the table, to signal to the two guys playing that she's got the next round.

"Doc told me you were a courier," she says, "so you must have some kind of basic survival skills, I assume. After all, you wouldn't get too far on raw broc flower and cactus fruit."

"Actually, I usually just live off canned stuff when I'm on the road."

"Huh," she says, then leans to the side to look me up and down. "You don't look too bad for it. Shit makes me sick."

She takes her drink down in a long swallow. Not knowing how to respond to her backhanded compliment, I finish mine at the same pace. She doesn't choke or sputter-but I do.

"How secure d'you think your Mojave Express gig is?" she asks.

"Not very," I say. "That was a pretty expensive package I lost. Mrs. Nash might bake me a pie for a severance package, though."

I don't think a surname has ever fit a person less, but at that Sunny actually does smile. "Well," she says, until you get that pie, it looks like you're gonna need to get used to campfires. You ever hunt gecko?"

I shake my head.

"Think you can be ready to go-" she looks up at the clock over the doorway to the other side of the bar "-how about now?"

"Uh, sure," I answer.

She stands up. "I'll get the rifles. Meet me out back in five."

I meet Sunny near a makeshift firing range, with perforated cans of pork and beans scattered all around. Her dog, Cheyenne, noses about the detritus. We load the repeaters and set off on the road out of town. Up in the hills near the town's water source, Sunny signals me to halt and points to a group of three bright blue geckos.

Sunny lines up a shot and pops the head off of one. They wouldn't be so unsettling if they didn't look so damn happy when they're running at you. My first shot tears through a gecko's fin, which doesn't slow it down. In my haste, I aim the second shot too low, and it disappears in a puff of sand right in front of it.

"I know they're ugly," Sunny says, firing a shot that takes the second surviving gecko down, "but you've got to look at 'em to aim at 'em!"

The gecko covers the distance between us with terrifying speed. Luckily, Cheyenne leaps in front of it and leads it on a chase, a chase that I cut short with a clean shot.

Sunny doesn't give me time to be too proud of my kill. She makes sure that there are no more geckos around. She asks me to give her a hand lifting the gecko corpses onto a nearby pallet. One of the geckos, however, she drags onto a tarp and starts skinning.

"Can't exactly clean the whole thing out here," she says, wiping the sweat off her brow with her forearm, "but I can show you how to get some choice cuts for the road. Gecko jerky'll fix most anything."


End file.
